


Sentiment

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Family, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Laughter During Sex, Love, M/M, TFP what TFP, baby what baby, but only just really very newly so, childhood bedroom sex, dancing to Marvin Gaye, for some reason, post-tld, ya feel me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:45:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9723401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: What would it look like if they actually talked about who they really are, and who they want to be; what would their lives be like if after TLD, they simply let themselves finally finish falling in love.





	

It’s the first Christmas since all that bad business the Christmas before, since everything went wrong, since the whole world turned itself inside-out and settled back into place as though the lot of them weren’t all exposed raw flesh stinging in cold air; and Sherlock takes John to his parents’ house because John asks to go in a voice so controlled it makes Sherlock’s chest ache more than the thought of enduring Christmas dinner pains his head. It’s been well over a year since Sherlock told John everything, since John agreed to follow Sherlock’s lead and he’s done so faithfully ever since without so much as a glance over his shoulder, but he’s been smiling less this month, going to bed early and leaving Sherlock far too much space on his side should he join him. It’s the holidays, Sherlock supposes; memories, sentiment.

Sherlock’s secretly a little bit pleased that John seems to have taken to his parents so much better than he did to Mycroft. His family should be John’s family.  _ He  _ is John’s family. He can suffer a few days with his parents to ensure all of that.

He’s doubly pleased that he’s his mother’s child, and that after mere minutes of their visit, she decides it is imperative that Mycroft accompany their father and herself into town for the Christmas panto. Mycroft’s face twists in enough displeasure to make Sherlock a bit giddy, but he acquiesces with bad grace at his mother’s stage whisper and firm elbow asserting the need for “the boys to have some time alone.”

It’s beyond puzzling; it’s throat-catchingly worrying,  _ endlessly frustrating _ , that despite the fact that all they  _ ever _ have is time alone, Sherlock has to bring John all this way outside civilisation, this far from London and their life and their home, to get him to smile again; but John smiles all the same, gratefully accepting a mug of hot tea and wandering out of the kitchen as the other three Holmeses give an unconvincing performance of a casual goodbye. Sherlock heaves a sigh as the door shuts and turns to follow. 

“John?”

“I’m in the sitting room.”

And he is, seated on the floor by some shelves, legs stretched out in front, rifling through a collection of old vinyls. His face has taken on a serenity Sherlock hasn’t seen in weeks, and the life-roughened lines around his eyes and mouth look almost soft.

“What are you doing?”

“You never told me your dad had all these records. Ah,” John says, smiles and holds up a dog-eared selection as though its contents were worth their weight in gold. He replaces the rest of the pile, stands, slips the disc out of its jacket and blows a bit of dust off, lifts the top of the old record player and places it inside. “Listen to this,” he says, dropping the needle.

Sherlock’s sure he doesn’t care what he hears if it makes John smile like that.

Music he can only describe as  _ sultry _ emanates, notes and lyrics and voice all drawn out and suggestive, and John throws him an earnest look.

Sherlock wants to please John, wants to keep his face this soft and hopeful and open, grasps helplessly at the notes as they hit the air between them. “Am I supposed to know this song?”

John’s face falls only slightly, and Sherlock can feel something in his chest plummet all the way down to his belly. He wants to be good at this, he’s never wanted to be good at anything as much as he wants to be good at this, at pleasing John Watson, but before he can think of something else to say, anything to slow the bullet of his own clumsy reply, John gets a wicked sort of glint in his eye and licks over his bottom lip.

“It’s supposed to make you want to fuck me.”

John hasn’t looked at him like that in ages, like he knows something Sherlock doesn’t and Sherlock’s really going to enjoy finding out what it is. Sherlock knows what to do now, knows what to say to this; this, he can do.

“John.” His voice is fathoms-deep, and it breaks a little as he shucks the coat he hadn’t bothered removing when they arrived and lets it pool on the ground in a puddle of dark wool, moves forward and wraps one arm around John’s waist, takes John’s hand in his, pulls him close and begins to sway, coaxing him into a rhythm that is unplanned and intimate. He all but whispers low in John’s ear, “I don’t need a song to make me want to do that.”

John lets out with a small, broken sound and crumbles against him.

From there it’s nothing at all to wrap John fully in his arms, to slide his hands all over John’s back and arse and hips and waist, up along his torso and neck, to cup John’s face between both palms, to kiss and lick at the wetness of his cheeks and mouth.

“Please,” John chokes on an abrupt sob and shuts his eyes. “Please. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock shakes his head even though John can’t see him and kisses John’s eyelids. “I’ve missed you.”

John’s sigh is a full-bodied shudder, and Sherlock engulfs him again, tight in the circle of his arms, holds him close until he feels John’s body relax. He takes John’s hand and leads him upstairs, down the corridor and into his bedroom.

“Old bedroom, eh?” John’s eyes are still bright, but his grin is a new sort of joy. “Bit cliché, this is.”

Sherlock pauses. “We could go to Mycroft’s room, if you’d rather.”

John barks a startled laugh and slips a hand inside the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, massages his fingers into the muscle at the top of Sherlock’s arse. “ _ Really _ don’t want to talk about Mycroft right now.”

“No, better not.” He turns, shuts the door behind them and pushes John up against it, presses his chest and hips and incipient arousal all along John’s front. “Let’s not talk at all.”

*

John’s flat on his back with Sherlock’s fingers inside him, cock flushed and heavy against his belly and wet at the tip, when his groan catches on a chuckle.

Sherlock pauses. “What?”

“No—don’t  _ stop _ ,” John pants, squirming to fuck himself down onto Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock pulls his his fingers away. “You  _ laughed _ at me,” he accuses.

John sighs. “I didn’t. Not  _ at _ you. I was just laughing.”

“Why?”

“It’s just—” John pauses, gestures around them. “It’s this. Us. Having sex. At your parents’ house. On your childhood bed.” He giggles again. “It’s a bit weird.”

Sherlock furrows his brow. “I thought you wanted to.” The little crinkle of concern that appears across the bridge of his nose makes John’s heart swell ridiculously.

“I did—I  _ do _ . I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” John makes what he hopes is a very serious face. “Kiss me.”

Sherlock does, and John pulls that plush bottom lip between his own and gives it a proper nibble. “Mm,” he says, and Sherlock slides his tongue against John’s as he slides his fingers back in.

He lets Sherlock eat at his mouth as his jaw goes a bit slack at the sensation of Sherlock’s fingers moving inside him, rubbing and twisting, and a small moan almost escapes but Sherlock swallows that too, breathes hot against his mouth and asks, “Now?”

John nods and whimpers as he watches Sherlock remove his hand and re-slick his fingers before wrapping them around his own erection. Sherlock’s got a lovely cock, John thinks, long and pale and pink at the head where he’s leaking all over the duvet, and the thought sends John into another fit of giggles.

“ _ What _ .” Sherlock sounds more irritated than concerned, now.

“Nothing! I’m sorry.” John tries to school his features but he’s helpless against it now and the laughter bubbles up and out of him even as he tries to coax Sherlock’s hips forward toward his own.  “We’re just making a bit of a mess, aren’t we? Not very subtle. I don’t know if I’ll be able to look your mum and dad in the face after this.”

Sherlock looks pained. “If you could refrain from mentioning my parents at any time during which I intend to put my cock in you, I’d be much obliged.”

John grins and puts a hand into Sherlock’s messy curls, pulls Sherlock’s face to his own and covers his pout with a soft kiss. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Please, fuck me.”

Sherlock growls into his mouth and climbs over, hitches John’s legs over his thighs and rubs his fat, wet cockhead against John’s perineum and John groans.

“Oh, God, Sherlock,  _ please _ .”

“Not so funny now, is it,” Sherlock says and pushes himself in.

John lets out a long moan and shakes his head, clutches Sherlock’s braced forearms as Sherlock begins to move in long, smooth strokes. John wraps his legs around Sherlock’s back and tilts his hips up and gasps, “Ah!  _ There _ .”

Sherlock gives him a feral grin and snaps his hips forward, pumps hard into John and lowers his arms as John slides his hands up to Sherlock’s biceps. Sherlock’s breathing into his mouth, dropping now and again to nibble at his lips, and John’s cock lies thick between their bellies, hard and wet and twitching gloriously against Sherlock’s smooth abdomen.

After a time, Sherlock drops his mouth to John’s ear and licks all around shell of it, bites down gently on the lobe. “John,” Sherlock breathes, and John shivers. “Touch yourself.”

John makes a wanton, keening sound and brings a hand down between them to stroke his cock, twisting his foreskin up and over and down again, flicking his thumb across the head. “Sherlock,” he pants, “mmm _ close _ .”

“Good,” Sherlock replies, and he pulls back, lifts John’s legs up over his shoulders and rocks into him just the way John likes, and John’s making all kinds of embarrassing noises, but he can’t care as he pulls his own cock two, three more times and clenches down hard on Sherlock, comes all over his fist and stomach with a loud groan.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps, “ _ oh _ ,” and he comes too, hardens and pulses and spills inside John and John whimpers and shudders, lowers his legs and pulls Sherlock down into a messy kiss.

Sherlock’s lying on top of John, a bit out of breath, the stickiness of John’s release smeared between them, when John’s satisfied sigh drops into a low and filthy laugh.

“What  _ now _ ?” Sherlock grunts, his face half-smashed into the pillow.

“Nothing, just—” John shifts gingerly, feels come and sweat all over, and Sherlock’s cock softening against his thigh, “I  _ really _ hope we’ve got time for a wash.”

He tries not to be too horrified when, before Sherlock can reply, they hear the distant sound of a car door being slammed shut, voices shouting and shoes crunching up the walk with the sort of frenetic, key-jangling fanfare John can only guess is offered as a warning.


End file.
